HD 'Better Than A Handshake' 11 in 13 Nights
by tigersilver
Summary: AU; EWE; Post-War. Draco is doing it for Harry's sake.


**Title:** Better Than a Handshake  
**Author:** tigersilver  
**Characters:** Harry/Draco  
**Rating:** PG-13 (language)  
**Warning(s):** Language  
**Word Count:** 1,138

**Prompt: ****hd_seasons** – 13 Nights of Smut, Prompt #11 (graveyard; scream)

**Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Summary:** I lied, sorry!. Smexing to come, tomorrow. Pre-smexing revelations this eve.

Hallowe'en Night was perhaps not the most comfy-cozy night to hang about in a deserted graveyard. Perhaps especially not in a quiet country plot, where the tombstones resided quietly over their departed owner's bones. _Too_ quiet. The hush was frightening, sending an eerie prickle up Draco's spine as he waited patiently for Harry to be finished.

It wasn't a place he'd have chosen to come on any night, but especially not this one. Pansy Parkinson Weasley was hosting a party at the newly renovated Parkinson-Weasley Mansion; if that grew stale, there were riotous, boisterous times to be had on Diagon or even in Muggle London, where Witches and Wizards in ever more extravagant costumes abounded. One could consume pints or Ogden's or Firewhisky till one was seven sheets to the wind (far more impressive than the usual Muggle three, that) or one could indulge in chocolates and sweets and puddings from magical establishments till one's waist expanded and the old Roman trick of Vomitus began to seem quite appealing. In short, there were far more entertaining places to be and people to see, if one weren't constrained to be calling on the dead.

But Harry was. That, in the end, was the crux, and when Draco's fingertips became red with frosty chill, along with the sharp tip of his nose, he told himself that.

This was for Harry.

"And then, Mum, Hermione decided she's enough of the arses in the Wizangamot, so she started a petition for an age requirement. Did you know old Squirrely Basenstoke's almost two hundred? She's says it's no wonder the Death Eater's dependents didn't have a fair chance, after the war.."

Harry's voice murmured on and on, a low counterpoint to the wind, which was picking up, gusting a bit more now that the sun was fully set. Draco huddled under his ancient oak and sighed. How much longer, and how much more could Harry possibly have to say to two people whom he didn't even remember from life?

But that wasn't true, really. There'd been the Resurrection Stone (the whole tale of that had made him shudder; _what if?_ his heart asked, and there was no good answer, only a bleak grey span of years stretching). The Mirror, too, and his heart stirred again. If he'd but have known then, he'd have—he'd have.

He'd have still been the prat that he was. There was no denying it, but at least now Draco could be doing _something_, if only simply wait.

Wait while the wind forced a scream through bare branches; wait while Harry shivered, laying a loving hand on his mother's gravestone. And wait—

"Are you ready?" Warm hands slid 'round his waist, finding their way under layers of Italian wool jersey and washed silk shirt, and warmed _him_. Draco started—his lids had been shut tight against the wicked wisps of chill breezes, which bore nothing more reassuring than a faint, far scent of rotting apples. "Draco?"

Harry pressed his heat up against Draco's back and rump, and buried the cold projection of his nose into Draco's hair. "What?" he asked, curious, when Draco hesitated before nodding. "Something wrong, luv?"

"Are you quite certain you're finished, Harry?" This slayed him, asking, when if they were anywhere other than here, he'd have cheerfully murdered for a warm pub stool or a turn 'round Pansy's pretty new Longbottom-designed steam-heated greenhouses, but still. This wasn't about him, was it? "I'm perfectly fine, if you need—"

"I need _you_," Harry interrupted. "Your prick, prat, to be specific. Up my bum, as soon as can be arranged. Come on, then. Let's be off, yeah? 'S'chillier than a Witches tit here."

"Uhm, what?" Draco stumbled as Harry tugged him round to arrange them face-to-face for Apparation. "Pardon?"

"Mmm?" Harry murmured, snuggling into Draco's heavy autumn robes, so that Draco tightened his arms automatically. "What now?"

"That's quite a turnabout—I mean, isn't that rather, erm, ah...abrupt, Harry? You've just come from visiting your parent's tombs. How can you even be thinking of shagging?" Draco was most certainly pleased that Harry was; shagging sounded the best out of all the evening's options, but—but. Was it even respectful? These were Harry's parents, after all, just a few steps away. It was rather appalling, actually.

"Oh, er," Harry chuckled as he drew away just an inch or two, gazing up at the Draco's shocked features. "I see, now," he said decisively. "What you're saying. No, not at all, berk—that's not it at all. It's fine, really."

"What's not 'it', Harry?" Draco demanded, and glanced about him. There were the serried ranks of the peaceful dead and the scudding clouds obscuring the moonlight, allowing him an almost antiqued sepia view of the graveyard at Godric's Hollow. Or perhaps the image he saw was more similar instead to one of those black-and-white Muggle films Harry adored so wholeheartedly, but instead of the Keystone bobbies, one fully expected to see a skulking vampire or a zombie. Whatever; it was still a place that demanded proper funereal behaviour. "Showing respect? I beg to differ!"

The sense of shock was all too quickly segueing over to anger. Harry managed to do that to him, still, with just a word, and regularly. And anger, naturally, led to passion, and passion to—

"Oh, do shut it, Draco," Harry cut in, before Draco could roust up a full head of steam on the topic of honouring one's ancestors. "There's nothing wrong with a nice rogering on a holiday. My parents can hardly object, can they? In fact, I rather think they'd be all for it!"

"You're joking, Potter! You must be—I mean, really—" Draco was horrified yet again. "They—me!"

But Harry only chortled and gathered him closer, till it seemed he would crawl right into Draco's robes with him. Slightly mollified but not anywhere close to admitting it, Draco halted mid-sentence and let a curious brow quirk up. "Alright, Harry, I'll bite. Why wouldn't they?"

"Barmy git," Harry giggled. "It's because it's _you_, Draco. They know you now—certainly should; I've told them enough about you, all these years! They wouldn't be shocked at all if we go do, er, what couples do, Draco. Gods, they'd expect it!"

"…Really?" Draco was pleased—no, Draco was thrilled. All these years of waiting, and he'd had what needed before him all along. Acceptance. That was what Harry was saying, right? "You mean?"

"I mean I want to shag you, luv, and right quick, and that's perfectly understandable. Right?" He tacked on a quick snog and Draco found himself nodding.

"Right."

"Good-oh. Let's be off, then. Shag first, Ron's later, yeah?"

Draco smiled, bemused by Potter-logic but vastly warmed, all the same. This was a far sight better than any sodding old handshake; he could practically feel the heat of Harry's slicked-up hole 'round his cock already.

"Yeah!"

TBC…

And then, for afters, you might want to peruse the NC-17 sequel, 'This Thing We Call Ours'. Maybe.


End file.
